If You Have To Ask
by ThereAreNoLines
Summary: After all, if there's anything she knows about Ivy, it's that she needs to control something. And that something might as well be her.


She doesn't remember how it started. (Or she just doesn't _want_ to remember, she isn't sure which.) The first time, it was all a blur of lips and teeth and tongue and her nails biting into someone else's skin and the sour notes on the piano as she was pressed against it.. She wasn't even sure who it was before she saw the head of blonde hair disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt. (And then those lips and teeth and tongue went places she pretended she'd never imagined they would.)

Her heartbeat pulses under her skin and in her ears until she can't hear anything else except for her breath catching in her throat as she takes her there, and she grips the piano so hard that there are splinters under her nails for a week. (It hurts like a bitch but she barely notices because she can't stop staring. Derek yells at her for her distraction, but she barely notices that either.) She's too caught up in the heat that's receding from the pit of her stomach to process even the shock, let alone the quiet kisses being trailed up the length of her body, her clothes either pushed aside or just torn off. She only realizes it's happening when it stops, and Ivy's mouth seizes her own instead of kissing melodies across her skin.

No one has ever kissed her like this before, not even Dev, and she's not quite sure what to do, but all of a sudden, she brings her hand up, and she's running her thumb along her cheekbone and cupping the angle of her jaw. Her fingers trace pathways through that tangled, curly blonde mane she's always admired. (But God, she'd never admit that, Ivy makes it hard to be nice to her already. After this, though, she's not so sure.) But just as she's thinking that this isn't bad and Ivy isn't bad at all – fuck everything she's ever thought about the blonde she's amazing and marvelous, and she's sending shivers down her spine and God, she can't even remember her boyfriend's name – Ivy shatters the kiss, and turns away from her so quickly that Karen can't even catch a glimpse of her expression, can't figure out what just happened, or why. Furthermore, Ivy's out the door before Karen can collect her panties from inside the piano (however the hell they ended up in there, she doesn't know,) and follow her out. But she's not in the hallway either, or out in the street when she trips out the door, and if it weren't for the completely ruined panties she had hastily stuffed into her purse, she would swear it was just a stress-induced hallucination.

She doesn't tell Dev when she gets home. She doesn't tell Derek the next morning. She doesn't tell anyone.

After all, who would believe her?

* * *

The second time it happens, she isn't expecting it either. (But then again, it probably wasn't the best idea to wait until they were completely alone in the bathroom at the end of rehearsal to corner Ivy.) She doesn't even get past 'what the hell was that?' before she's silenced by Ivy's searing kiss. The memory of it from the night before is still strong, and she wants to pull away (because, God, everything about this is so wrong,) but she finds that she can't.

She isn't sure what it is, to be honest. It's probably a lot of things. And it's about halfway through when it finally strikes her. (It's when Ivy is doing that _thing_ with her tongue, and she swears she has a concussion from how hard her head hits the tiled wall.) Ivy knows exactly what she's doing, in more ways than one. (Because she has to notice how the first time messed her up, that can't be a coincidence.) She knows exactly where and how to kiss her, where to put her hands, just how hard to dig her nails in, and just the right way to use her lips and tongue _all over_ her body. It's ecstasy, and hell at the same time because this is exactly the state she never wanted Ivy to see her in. (Completely vulnerable, stripped down to nothing but her barest form, utterly and wholly raw.) Ivy does the things Karen fears that Dev will, and she _can't_ stop her. (Every time she opens her mouth, it's not those words that are coming out.)

She's never felt so utterly sexual before, with one long leg hooked over Ivy's shoulder, and her fingertips pressed to her scalp as she grips her hair. Every other word out of her mouth is vulgar, and dirty, and raw but it's the only thing she can even muster up to describe what she's feeling. (The last time she said 'fuck' this many times was under her breath in hushed tones over an injury of some kind.) She's never come this undone with Dev before, never been this vocal, never this needy. But Ivy's got her begging and pleading like she never has before, and it's because Dev is all about what Karen wants. (And what Karen wants is no-nonsense, no frills sex, because it's safe and she doesn't lose control like she's doing right now.) Right now, it's all about what Ivy wants, and what Ivy wants, Karen realizes as she's crying out her name and practically tearing her hair out to keep herself grounded, is control.

Ivy's controlling her as she kisses her. As she touches her. No matter how much Ivy might be breaking down in real life, no matter how far in the musical Karen gets, Ivy's letting her know that all it takes is a few strategic kisses and she's putty in her hands. She can make her break down and beg and call her name in a matter of minutes. (Maybe that's what Ivy needs – someone to call her name, cheer her on after a good performance. Karen is her own personal audience.)

It makes sense, Karen realizes as she slides down the cold tiled wall, watching Ivy leave yet again without any answers. After all, if there's anything she knows about Ivy, it's that she needs to control _something. _(And that something might as well be her.)

* * *

She knows Ivy's there when she's singing 'Touch Me.' She can feel her eyes on her, boring through her from somewhere backstage, the second she starts performing. She can feel the outrage, and she knows she's in for it the next time they're alone. (She's learned to stop being afraid of being alone with Ivy.)

But she doesn't expect the next time they're alone to be twenty minutes later, in the back of the theatre, her bare back pressed against the rough, unfinished brick of the walls, creating scratches that she'll be asked about for weeks. (She had an unfortunate fall during rehearsal, she tells Dev. She was helping Dev remodel, she tells Derek. She gets a lecture from both men about working too hard. God, if only they knew…) "What were the lyrics again?" Ivy whispers so sweetly in her ear as she tiptoes her perfectly manicured fingertips up her inner thigh, stopping just short of where she'll never admit she wants them to be, making her breath catch in her chest. Her insides are hot, liquid with what she will admit is desire. (Her legs are trembling and she doesn't know how Ivy expects her to speak.)

"Touch me." She manages to get out finally, desperate for Ivy to do just that. She's become dependent on this, dependent on her. (Although she supposes that's all part of Ivy's plan. She always has a plan.) She thinks about her when she's with Dev, and how his gentle, loving touch will never compare to the tight coil of heat inside her that threatens to shatter each time Ivy corners her – she's rough, never gentle, and there aren't any illusions about the state of her affection. (Non-existent.)

"Go on…" Ivy's voice is little more than a purr, and her lips are against her ear, and it draws a rough moan from Karen's mouth, she simply can't help herself. "You knew it perfectly before, I want my own private performance…" She punctuates her sentence with a few teasing flicks of her fingertips that make Karen's back arch against her will, a desperate sound echoing from the back of her throat.

Karen finds her mouth to be suddenly dry, but she licks her lips anyway, forcing her voice to register somehow. "I wanna feel it on my body…put your hands on me…" She gasps out, only to be silenced by a brief but deep kiss, Ivy's teeth pulling at her lower lip. She grips her shoulders, digging her nails into her skin. (For reasons she can't explain, she wants her closer, she wants even more of this, this thing she is both terrified of and yet addicted to.)

"Since you asked so nicely…" Ivy whispers, and it's all Karen hears as Ivy begins to follow the parameters of the song perfectly…

* * *

The first time they do it in a bed is also the first time Karen witnesses Ivy almost lose control – _almost._

Ivy's drunk and she knows it probably shouldn't be happening, but she's a little more than drunk herself and she can't help her hands from wandering. She looks so adorably stupid in that angel costume anyway, she wants to get it off of her. (No wonder Ivy hated being in 'Heaven on Earth.' She looked like a fucking idiot.) First the halo, and then the wings, and then she was stripping her out of that white, glittery nylon and exposing the skin that she's been aching to see more of - not that she's ever admitted that to herself before. (It's too much trouble for her to even consider. Too many messy implications.)

Ivy isn't entirely absent – she's talking, but Karen blocks her out until she says, very clearly, her previously unfocused gaze locked onto hers, "What are you waiting for, Iowa?" Her voice is low and gravely, and her eyes have this sudden, dark undertone to them, and before she knows it, she's staring into them up close, closer, until her eyes flutter shut and their lips meet.

She tastes of alcohol, and lipstick. (If show business has an actual taste, this is it. She tastes like the shattered illusion of New York, of fame.) It feels alien, for a moment, because she's so tentative, and Ivy isn't shoving her into a wall or against a piano and having her way with her. There's no frenzy, there's no rush, there's no element of control or force…it's just a kiss. And it's terrifying. (Because it's just a kiss, there's no fantasy or control or the illusion of her losing her free will at all.) It's just a kiss. It's just Karen kissing Ivy and – oh God, that's her rival and she's a girl and this is so very wrong, she…

"For the love of God, it's not that hard." Ivy snaps, pulling her back down into a kiss, hand on her cheek, guiding her into it. It's as if that one not-so-gentle hand drives away the doubt in what she's doing, and she's kissing back and she's on top of her and she's doing things to her that she never pictured herself doing, ever. (Not to Ivy, not to any girl, not even the cute one from the high school locker room in Iowa.)

That is, however, until Karen, intoxicated by more than just the alcohol, is tiptoeing her fingers up Ivy's thigh, (in a very poor imitation of the woman herself, she's sure,) only to be interrupted by Ivy's hand closing forcefully around her wrist. "_Don't._" It's one short word, but it stops Karen in her tracks and she looks up at her. (No doubt wearing the expression that Ivy calls 'bambi eyes.' She can't tell whether it's endearing or derisive.) At first she's wary, but complacent. But as the silent moments tick by and neither of them move, Karen is frustrated (in more ways than one) and more than a little curious.

"Why won't you let me touch you?" She crawls forward over her, pushing her shoulders down against the mattress in a weak imitation of how Ivy always does it to her, and apparently Ivy thinks so too because before she knows it, the feather down mattress is exploding against her back, and she's gazing up into Ivy's wicked expression, her mouth hanging open. (Which Ivy doesn't hesitate to take advantage of.)

It's not until afterwards, with the faint echoing of the city outside and Karen lazily opening her eyes to the white stucco ceiling, (her fingertips brushing against the holes they ripped in the sheets only minutes earlier,) that she remembers something else happened. "Ivy." She stalls, just listening to the sound of the name echoing in the empty room, before she realizes that she is, in fact, alone. "Ivy?" She stands, struggling into her skinny jeans, placing a hand against the marks on her neck. (Thank God she decided to wear a turtleneck, Dev wouldn't miss these otherwise.)

She finds her in the kitchen making tea. (How she's sober enough to make tea, Karen doesn't know.) Stumbling in – her coordination robbed from her by the in-between of afterglow and alcohol – she finds that she's not, and the stove isn't even on, and Ivy's just as perplexed as she is. "Karen, do you – ?"

"Why?" Karen blurts out, holding onto the wall for support until she gets her footing back. The question is more than sobering, judging by how sharply Ivy looks at her. (For a moment, she's actually afraid.) But then Ivy's lips curve into a sweet smile, and Karen isn't sure which she's more afraid of.

"If you have to ask." She says mysteriously, just like she does everything anymore, walking past her with an empty teacup. (If she wasn't drunk, she would have found the exchange absolutely ridiculous, but at that moment, it was particularly badass.) "You'll never know."

* * *

"My parents called me three times to ask if I was a lesbian." (I'm not, I'm not, I swear to fucking God, I'm not. At least, most of the time I'm not.)

"Better get used to it…you're on your way." (It's moments like these where all she wants to do is punch Ivy in her stupid perfect face.)

* * *

As she picks up the black velvet box placed so delicately on her vanity, Karen knows who put it there. And for an instant, she almost wishes Ivy had put it there for an entirely different reason.

Almost.


End file.
